The Rest Of My Life
by PlonkerOnDaLoose
Summary: "I promise I'll make it up to you. Even if it takes me the rest of my life" ... post-finale
1. Prologue

**THE REST OF MY LIFE**

.

_If you won't forgive me the rest of my life  
Let me apologise while I'm still alive  
I know it's time to face all of my past mistakes  
They're going to kill me for the rest of my life  
_'Rest Of My Life' – Less Than Jake

"_I'll make it up to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life." _

.

**Prologue.**

Being shot is like a heavy punch to the solar plexus. It stops you. Shocks you. There is no pain, not as such, merely a sense of ultimate suspension. Cold floods through you, eating up the space left by the departing blood, and with it a terminal fatigue. And all the while, with this hot wetness dripping down your stomach, with this heavy salt oozing out into the night, you stand there, thinking, how did I get here?

Bullets have become a cliché in this modern world of ours, almost like a fairytale. Things like this don't happen to real people, real people die stupid, mundane deaths. Car crashes and breast cancer and broken hearts.

Broken heart? Isn't that the nice way of dressing up liver cirrhosis for the children.

But yet here you are, lying on the ground, with all your life spread out around you, all red over the damp cobblestones.

Had you the breath, you would say thank you. Because dying alone in some back alley of Prague's redlight district is preferable.

You close your eyes, and stop thinking. You know how you got here.


	2. Paris, 3AM

**A/N:** okaaaaaay, so was watching the season finale – swear to God, it took me, literally, two hours because I kept having to pause and, like, digest everything. It was fecking hard work, you know, like watching _The Lord of the Rings _Extended Edition. Anyhoo, t'was amazing, which I wasn't expecting because the season itself left a lot to be desired – I'm just going to say Chuck and Jenny had better be back, because they're the best actors and, really, the best characters. Chair IS the show. And Nate IS a manslut, I'm so glad he's finally living up to his potential, though not so sure about the sudden affinty for flannel... And Dan and Serena? WOO-HOO!

**A/N II: **ignoring the fact that Georgina's "pregnant" because I completely believe it's one of her crazy plots – she did say _this baby's going to do some things that make everybody hate her_ and I'm taking that as proof. If you don't like it, well than go fuck a kangaroo

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Gossip Girl WOULD I HAVE SHOT CHUCK? Really ... hmmm. Though a badass scar, now ... I digress. I own nothing but Dr. Finnegan. The sexy beast. Oh, and the lyrics belong to Less Than Jake

**Warning: **3x22 spoilers and extreme creative license regarding season 4 ... And, as of yet, unBeta'd. Sorry, I couldn't wait

**Reviews: **are love! And, such, I love_ H&M skinnys_, _ChairLoveK_, _Crystal Twilight_, _xoxokat_, _Liliendream_, _Delano's Wings_, _shadowxboxerxbaby_, _Ziah_, _calliope26_, _ilovecujo1993_, _D_, _ronan03 _

**

* * *

THE REST OF MY LIFE**

**.  
**

_If you won't forgive me the rest of my life  
Let me apologise while I'm still alive  
I know it's time to face all of my past mistakes  
They're going to kill me for the rest of my life  
_

"_I promise I will make it up to you. Even if it takes me the rest of my life." _

.

**Chapter One. Paris, 3AM **

Thanks, no doubt, to Hollywood, there seems to be this general idea floating about that, when someone is shot in the shoulder or in the leg, he need only grimace for a minute or so in a suitably badass 'this-hurts-but-I-am-a-MAN-and-will-take-it-as-such' fashion before continuing on with whatever he was doing before a large lump of metal embedded itself in his flesh. This notion is so widespread that it's generated the assumption that it's an accurate reflection of reality – But in reality, there's no "safe" place to shoot a person, not even in a seemingly non-vital extremity like an arm or a leg. Bullet wounds to the shoulder will almost invariably either kill, if not cripple the victim for life. There are huge blood vessels in the shoulder, as well as thousands of delicate nerves and a very complex ball-and-socket joint that not even Dr. Frankenstein could put back together once smashed by a bullet (though, if you could borrow Dr. Who's time machine, there might yet be hope). There are huge blood vessels in human legs too; if a shot even so much as nicks the femoral artery, and you'll be dead before you can say _but no! Rambo totally survived this shit_.

The idea that one can shoot the good guy in the shoulder and expect him to hang around, comes from the fact that the largest muscle pads on the human body – muscle being the only type of tissue which can take a wound of impressive visual nastiness that isn't necessarily incapacitating or life-threatening – are in the thighs and the outside of the shoulder. The gluteus maximi also suffice, but that particular target zone is often felt to lack dramatic gravitas. Being shot in the ass isn't very, to pardon the pun, bad-ass. Yet bullets defy bad-assness, and Wolverine, the Terminator and Marc Wahlberg are the only exceptions to this rule. Even Leonardo DiCaprio dies when he gets shot.

As demonstrated with excess in _Reservoir Dogs_, the worst place to get shot – meaning maximum pain and minimum relief – is the gut. Tim Roth takes one in the belly and spends the entire film bleeding on the floor and wailing. The 'gut' refers to the general lower chest area, which contains the liver, the kidneys, the lungs, the stomach, the pancreas, the spleen, the intestines and numerous serious arteries. With so many organs squashed together, the bullet is bound to bounce around. A pierced lung can fill with blood and drown a victim, or collapse and create a vacuum while asphyxiating. The stomach is filled with hydrochloric acid, and, if punctured, this acid will spread throughout the abdomen, burning all it touches. The kidneys filter one and a half litres of blood per minute. The intestines are home to carnivorous bacteria, which, while adverse to intestinal tissues, would welcome the free meal. The liver is a basically a bag of poison. A bullet can easily shatter bone, and twenty-four ribs means a lot of shrapnel. And if the bullet, by some divine intervention, misses the stomach, and the liver, both kidneys and all the intestines, there is always the spinal column.

Though it seems a contradiction in terms, using the words _realistic_ and _Day of the Dead_ in the same sentence, the most realistic depiction of ballistic trauma – like ever – happens when Rhodes is shot in the right shoulder and unable to do anything with that side of his torso. He can't even open a door.

Long story short, don't get shot. You're fucked if you die, and you're fucked if you don't.

* * *

And Blair yelled, "Sere-_NA!_"

Serena's muffled voice called back from the bathroom, "What? Blair? What?" Wrapped in a towel, she poked her head around the door. Her wet hair hung down her back and residual make-up was clung about her eyes like an old bruise. "What, Blair?" she asked her best friend, patiently. "What is it?"

Blair brandished her cell as it rung shrilly (_I Will Survive_, for mental conditioning). "I keep getting this call– "

"Well than _answer_ it."

" –from a unknown number ... with a Czech area code," she finished loudly, talking over Serena. "Did you get drunk and write my number on a bathroom stall again? You can tell me. I promise I won't hate you – I probably won't even remember it in the morning."

Serena shook her head slowly. "No. But I should have."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Blair retorted defensively.

Serena's face softened into a smile. Crossing the room, she put her arms around Blair's shoulders. Blair did not complain about the damp soaking into her new Chanel – purchased that very morning in a little boutique in St. Honore, an original little black dress.

Blair had worn nothing but black since they arrived, and, no matter how high the hem, Serena thought she looked like a widow.

"What it's supposed to mean," she whispered, rubbing Blair's back, "is the only member of the opposite sex you've talked to since we've arrived has been the bartender."

Blair froze in her friend's warm embrace. Her mouth opened, ready for denial, but the words simply would not come. Perhaps it was the evening's martinis dragging on her tongue still, or clouding her brain. Or perhaps it was her heart vetoing her head.

Serena felt her tense and took a step back, holding Blair by the shoulders the better to see her face. "B. Seriously. We came to Paris to have fun ... You do remember what fun is?"

Blair scowled, and brushed Serena aside. "You have panda eyes. My cleanser's on the shelf, if you want it."

"Blair! Don't change the subject. Pleas– "

But she had drifted away, over past the wide window to the suite's bar. She lowered herself to a crouch, tottering precariously on her spindly heels, clutching the rim of the bar to steady herself. Her eyes racked the rows bottles – gin, vodka, whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila even.

And scotch.

Blair grabbed the vodka with a vengeance.

Serena bit her lip. "B," she said softly. "B, it's three AM."

Blair smiled brightly, and raised her shot. "I know. Nightcap, S?"

Serena shook her head. "No thanks ... And you should really answer that." She picked up Blair's discarded phone and glanced down at the number.

_I've got all my love to give, I've got all my life to liv–_

The cell rang off and Serena set it down on the marble counter. "They'll call again. Eighth time lucky, right?"

Blair downed the vodka and stuck out her tongue. Serena threw up her hands and stalked back to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Alone, Blair collapsed inside herself, sliding down the window with her back to Paris, the bottle of vodka cradled in her thin arms. Her hands shook with drink and determination as she measured out a second shot in the bottle cap.

They were forty-six storeys up. Blair closed her ears and sank back against the window, wishing she could melt right through it. She wondered if he was doing this, drinking, vodka, straight, in a strange hotel room, all alone, wondering – wondering, if he was wondering back. A sour chuckle forced its way out her mouth, causing her face to pucker. She felt bile surge in her throat and knew it had nothing to do with the vodka.

Chuck would not be alone. He would not have time for pathetic wondering.

And then she wondered why she wondered and the answer caused her belly to swell with hot shame.

Her hands shook so badly she dropped the bottle. It hit the carpet with a blunt thud and she watched, transfixed, as the stain slunk across the white pile, a portentous shadow.

On the bartop, her cell rang impatiently, vibrating against the marble. It's piercing shrill drilled at her head like a jackhammer and she staggered to her feet, seeking release. She saw the caller ID and pressed accept by mistake.

"Hello? Hello?" The accented voice – surprisingly, not Czech, but an Irish brogue – was urgent enough to pique her curiosity, and she took a shuddering breath.

"Yes?"

"Ah. Hello there."

"Blair?" Serena emerged from the bathroom, her face fresh. "Did you get– " She saw Blair holding the cell up to her ear and, suddenly, inexplicably, wished she hadn't picked up. "Who is it?"

Blair shrugged. "Yeah, because I know so many people in the Czech Republic."

Serena rolled her eyes.

"What?" Blair demanded flatly.

"Er ... hello?" And then, very slowly, "Hello. Do. You. Speak. English?"

"Blair!" Serena exclaimed, gesturing widely. "Answer it!"

"Oh." She clapped a hand to her mouth. "Whoops." And giggled. Suddenly the notion of receiving a call from the Czech Republic seemed hilarious. Blair felt laughter fizz up inside her like freshly popped champagne and she swayed as the bubble burst in her belly.

Serena snatched the phone away, and she cried, "Hey! That's _mine!_", ripping it back. "Hello," she chirped in her most bestest telephone voice. "This is Blair Waldorf speaking. How may I help you?"

"Yes, Miss Waldorf, I'm Dr. Finnegan at the Na Holmolce hospital, in Prague."

And, as suddenly as they had started, the bubbles fizzled flat. Blair stood up straight. "A hospital?" she repeated. In her peripheral vision, she saw Serena frown.

"Yeah. Na Holmolce hospital. Sorry to be disturbing you, I know it's late, like."

"No ... it's, it's okay," she said, her mouth a little dry. "I was awake."

"Sure, I'm calling you because your number was listed under 'A Emergency' in the contacts. Figured you'd be the one to call, like." There was a pause. "Do you know a fellow named Charles Bass? Charles? Charlie? Ch–"

"Chuck?"

"The very same."

Blair nodded her head until she realised that that doctor could not see her.

"I do," she rasped. "I do."

"And are you a relation?"

"He's my ... He's my– My Chuck."

The doctor's tone was too gentle. "I afraid I have bad news for you. You might want sit yourself down there."

Blair did as she was told. Serena sat beside her, whispering to her to put it on speaker – but Blair's mind was all but blank, entirely saturated in the conversation. The room somehow seemed colder, darker. Serena, whose arm was draped around her shoulders, was very far away.

"Miss Waldorf?"

"I'm here," Blair whispered, only it wasn't to Dr. Finnegan she was speaking. "I'm still here."

"An ambulance brought him in an hour ago, so it did."

Serena stiffened, and immediately grabbed Blair's hand.

"Miss Waldorf, I sorry to be telling you, but– "

Blair hung up. And flung the cell, with her love and strength, against the wall, where it shattered.

And Serena went ballistic, screaming and waving her hands like a windmill on fast-forward, and Blair watched her as though through a thick fog, like she was underwater – somewhere deep where sound could not penetrate and people wallowed in tormented ignorance – until she found herself on her feet.

"I'm sorry, S," she whispered, dropping her eyes as tears prickled, hot and sharp, like tiny needles. "I can't."

* * *

We are so careless with our words. Were they plants, they would be shrivelled and brown, languishing on the soil with all the dead petals and earwigs. Were they goldfish, they would be floating, belly-up. Were they children, they would cry out with wet eyes – _Papa, don't you care_? We throw words away like overripe fruit, let them roll under the sofa with the loose change and the dust bunnies, let them fester in the vacuum of life. We don't mean to. It's just the way we are.

We say stupid things – _It's always the last place you look_

Because, of course, one continues to search after said item has been located, just in case it's somewhere other than where it is – but we say it anyhow.

We say things that make no sense – _that's the final straw_

In this case, one is not referring to a deficiency of little plastic tubes that assist liquid consumption, instead declaring the end of one's tolerance of following an accumulation of insults or outrages – and yet we cannot simple say: that is enough. I refuse to take this anymore. I will now proceed to dash your brains out with my iPhone.

We say things we don't mean – _I love you_

So, when we say things we do mean, it is no wonder they are lost, discarded like old dry cleaning tabs. When we say, _ah, sure fuck it. You have the rest of your life to study complex numbers. Let's go get shitfaced_ – we mean it. We mean that, after today, there will be other days, and more days after that, days enough to cram our little heads full of complex numbers, and telephone numbers, social security, basketball scores, bank balances and the number of times you've re-read _Harry Potter_. When we say, _you'll never forget this day for the rest of your life_ – we mean it. We mean that, when you're old and grey and wrinkled up like a prune, you can dodder in your rocking chair with your pipe and slippers and think back on now, and wonder just what did you think you were doing, wearing that tie with that shirt. When we say, _you're young. You have to rest of your life ahead of you_ – we mean it.

Only our sincerity makes us careless, and or sentiment makes us blind. The rest of your life is relative.

The rest of your life, when you're nineteen years old, is supposed to be a lifetime away.

And that lifetime, when you're nineteen, is not supposed to last a week.

* * *

She sits in the back of the taxi. Serena sits beside her, emitting a constant stream of sound, loud and fast and fraught. Blair hears the words the words, yet, like ghosts, they glide through her stilted brain, leaving no trace of anything. Serena is holding her hand. Blair does not look at her best friend, though, even when she feels Serena's eyes crawling over her. S clings tighter to her hand, and, she feels her own fingers return the embrace.

She looks out the window and reminds herself to breathe.

In and out.

It is raining now. Great, fat drops chase down the windows and blur the world. It looks fragile and beautiful, shimmering. Behind her, Paris twinkles. There are no stars out tonight, only the temporary brilliance of planes sweeping overhead, and the floodlights of Charles De Airport are the only consolations – constellations – in the nightscape of her life. She lays her hand against the windowpane. It's cold and wet.

Serena strokes her hand with the pad of her thumb.

"What are you thinking, B?"

Blair turns and tries to discern her best friend's face through the white fog swirling behind her eyes.

"I can't," she replied truthfully.

She can hear the tears in Serena's voice. "You can't think about Chuck."

It's Blair's turn to gaze upon her friend with compassion in her eyes. Serena could never hope to understand.

"No, S," she soothes. "I can't think."

And she looks out the window and reminds herself to breathe.


	3. Charles De Gaulle, 5AM

**A/N:** okaaaaaay, so was watching the season finale – swear to God, it took me, literally, two hours because I kept having to pause and, like, digest everything. It was fecking hard work, you know, like watching _The Lord of the Rings _Extended Edition. Anyhoo, t'was amazing, which I wasn't expecting because the season itself left a lot to be desired – I'm just going to say Chuck and Jenny had better be back, because they're the best actors and, really, the best characters. Chair IS the show. And Nate IS a manslut, I'm so glad he's finally living up to his potential, though not so sure about the sudden affinty for flannel... And Dan and Serena? WOO-HOO!

**A/N II: **ignoring the fact that Georgina's "pregnant" because I completely believe it's one of her crazy plots – she did say _this baby's going to do some things that make everybody hate her_ and I'm taking that as proof. If you don't like it, well than go fuck a kangaroo

**A/N III: **also BLATANTLY IGNORING the fact that Chuck's middle name is Bartholomew. For no reason, other than my basic abhorration for the name. So I have selected a DIFFERENT one. Again, the kangaroo awaits dissenters

**A/N IV: **(sorry) if anyone can spot the _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _references (yes, PLURAL), you will get a cookie

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Gossip Girl WOULD I HAVE SHOT CHUCK? Really ... hmmm. Though a badass scar, now ... I digress. I own nothing but Dr. Finnegan. The sexy beast. Oh, and the lyrics belong to Less Than Jake

**Warning: **3x22 spoilers and extreme creative license regarding season 4 ... And, as of yet, unBeta'd. Sorry, I couldn't wait

**Reviews: **are love! And, such, I love_ Taylorr x333_, _ohmyeffinggossipgirl_, _follow-ur-dreams_, _Nicoley117-LadyBlueMartini_, _MrsCullen-Bass, CheeseSwiss_, _Gennyxoxo_, _READER120_, _thegoodgossipgirl_, _Nathascha_, _ana-12_, _ronan03_, _ChairLoveK_, _Ziah_, _LifeRX_, _HnM skinnys_, _Syrianora_, _Besotted B_, _Kate2008_, _chairobsessor_, _calliope26_

**

* * *

**

**THE REST OF MY LIFE**

.

_Late last night I made my plans  
It was the only thing I felt I could do  
Said goodbye to my best friend  
Sometimes there's no one left to tell you the truth  
And it's going to kill me the rest of my life_

"_I promise I will make it up to you. Even if it takes me the rest of my life."_

.

**Chapter Two. Charles De Gaulle, 5AM**

Serena had many a life philosophy. Some were gleaned from bumper stickers, others read in sombre-worded leaflets scattered with haphazard precision across coffee tables in doctor's waiting rooms. Some originated from she wasn't quite sure where – a dream, perhaps? A Ben Stiller movie? A trip (and not the kind that involves travelling further than the refrigerator)? Most of them were a bit of fun: _What would Chuck do?_ was always good for inspiration. She considered herself an optimist at heart, so _For every one thing you regret, there are always one hundred more to be thankful for_ was on the list. _If you're afraid to jump, you can always get a hang glider_, though it took her a while to actually deduce its meaning, reminded her that support would always be there should she need it. _DON'T PANIC!_ – which she actually read off the cover of a book lying on Dan's desk – was a bit of a no-brainer. But, truth be told, whenever the shit hit the fan, Serena did not try to think like Chuck. Already free-falling, she forgot about the hang-glider – and _DON'T PANIC!_, again, was a no-brainer. When life philosophies truly counted, she had but one.

When in doubt, call Dan.

And so Serena stood alone among the million people thronging the Departures Lounge, one ear pricked for flight 6815, one eye on the huge screens detailing times and gates, the other on their minimal luggage, One hand on Blair, holding tight lest she run away or evaporate, the other clutching their tickets – still hot from the printer – her cell clamped between her free ear and her shoulder, praying that Dan might answer.

As it turned out, there was a God.

"Er – hello?"

"Dan."

It was supposed to be a greeting, bright and cheery even at five AM, only her voice collapsed like a soufflé halfway through. She held a little tighter to Blair, compensating.

"Serena?"

"Dan."

"Serena ... What's wrong? Speak louder, I can't hear you. Serena?"

But all she could say was "Dan."

"That is my name, yes, I am glad you remembered it. It's been, what, sixteen hours? So. What, uh, what's up?"

"Oh, Dan."

"I'm here Serena, talk to me. What's up?"

She could hear the telltale rumble of a crowd on his end. "Where are you?" She asked.

"I ..."

"Dan?"

"I'm – I'm looking at you."

She could have cried. Dan snapped his cell shut, navigating his way through shoal of orange backpacks, past a couple of less-than-sober Irish soccer fans celebrating in the face of anyone who looked remotely French – _OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ _and_ if you're Irish come into the bar, if you're French go fuck a frog OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ –_ and up and over a chain of plastic seats, to hug her tightly.

"What are you doing here?" she gasped, momentarily releasing Blair to return the embrace, almost laughing. "Like – in France? Dan!"

Dan's face depicted the same pleasant surprise that was bubbling up in her stomach. "I could say the same about you. I was planning on surprising you at breakfast, but here – here is good, too. You know. Seriously, though, Serena." His smile hardened as he scrutinised her. "What's wrong? On the phone – looking at you now ... What happened?"

"It's awful," she whispered.

His voice was level, but his eyes flared. "Tell me."

"Blair– " And she grabbed for her friend again, but Blair had not moved an inch. "Blair got a phonecall an hour ago. From a ..." She took a ragged breath. The words felt like a raw egg in her mouth, all slippery and cold and difficult to contain.

"From a ..." Dan prompted, eyeing Blair. "A ..."

"A hospital. In Prague."

"Why would a hospital in Prague call Blair at, like, three in the morning ...?"

Even as he said the words, Serena saw comprehension dawn upon him. Dan scrubbed his face with his hands. "Chuck."

Serena nodded miserably. Dan glanced from Blair – wearing a little black dress and pearls and hotel slippers, with a run in her tights and panda eyes, just existing – to Serena, whose eyes were red-rimmed, as she clutched at her best friend with a drowning man's grip. Only Dan wasn't quite sure which one was drowning.

He exhaled more than air. Serena could taste the animosity on his breath. She had forgotten about Jenny.

And Chuck.

And Chuck _and _Jenny – who, no matter what she did, no matter whom – _what_ – she slept with, would always be Dan's little sister. She didn't quite know what relation Chuck had to Dad, being the adopted son of his stepmother, but wasn't about to hold her breath for a bromance. Or even brotherly love. Or fraternal obligation. Mutual respect was out of the question for both, and indifference impossible. Which left only loathing.

Unadulterated loathing.

Yet Dan did not crack open a bottle of champagne or do the Cha Cha Slide – or anything that suggested he welcomed the news. He simple asked, "How bad is it?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Blair hung up. Well, actually, she threw her cell at the wall. Before the doctor could tell us anything. And I've been trying, but I haven't been able to get through. I don't know the name of the hospital he was taken to and Blair won't tell me, so I've been calling all the hospitals in Prague and… Oh, my God, Dan. What if…?"

"Don't," said Dan shortly and softly. "C'mon. We've got to get to the gate, and we have ... exactly twenty-two minutes."

Serena stared at him. "We?"

Dan snorted. "I, uh, I love Prague. Completely. Always wanted to go there. Lifelong dream of mine. Vanessa went there last summer, said it was ..." He trailed off, grimacing. Serena felt herself flush and ducked her head.

Vanessa.

"You don't have to," she muttered, not meaning it.

"Hey. I've already flown to Paris and, let me tell you, it wasn't because I was craving a croissant. I think I can manage Prague."

"Thank you. I know ... You and Chuck. Jenny. It's– "

"Complicated?" Dan cut her off. "Yeah. But I'm not going for Chuck."

She reached for his hand, almost subconsciously, and her fingers collided with his midway.

* * *

They stitch him up with the bullet still inside. A nurse washes the blood from his hair, from his hands and chest and everywhere, so he's nice and clean when they come. She slipped on a tag, declaring him Charles Michael Bass, as per the passport found in his coat.

Michael?

He doesn't look it.

They send the bloody clothes for incineration, bag the personal affects. Watch, wallet, hip flask (empty, decidedly), Zippo, pinky ring, bag of Ecstasy. Take blood and culture samples for a toxicology panel. The police drop by and shake their heads, the American Embassy is notified. Dr. Finnegan steps out for a smoke. In Prague, it rains.

* * *

Dan called his dad from the on-flight telephone while Serena slept. Rufus told Lily, who told Eric, who rang Dan and injected a sense of quiet wisdom into the frazzled situation. Lily, according to Eric, had people ringing around the hospitals and Rufus was having fun Googling useful Czech phrases. Neither of them mentioned Jenny. Eric said he didn't want to upset her, in case she felt guilty or something. Dan replied flatly that Jenny had nothing to feel guilty about, so Eric passed him back to Lily.

"The jet is being prepped as we speak," she said, her voice strained. "We'll be there as soon as possible – And Dan?"

He paused, about to hang up. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

"For what?" he asked with wary bewilderment.

"For being there for Serena," she said.

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," Dan confessed.

A stewardess arrived with coffee in a delicate bone china cup. Dan didn't have bone china in his loft. He dunked the complimentary biscuit in the dark liquid and looked about him. First Class was all but deserted, only themselves and a scattering of business types hammering away on their laptops, ties thrown over their shoulders.

After a moment's hesitation, he rang Nate. Nate hesitated himself, and then asked, "How's Blair taking it?"

"She's been better," he replied delicately, winding the phone's cord around his pinky.

Nate sighed, a rush of static down the line. "Is she crying, or yelling, or what?"

"I've gotten more response from a brick wall. Serena stopped tried an hour ago."

Nate swore. "Lily's calling the hospitals now, so we should know. Soon enough. Probably just got smashed and passed out," he said with the false bravado of someone who knows that they are pulling at straws.

"Yeah," agreed Dan thickly, swallowing. "Probably. I mean, this is Chuck we're talking about. I shouldn't get my hopes up that he got shot or anything."

Nate didn't laugh. Dan didn't apologise. The line hung between them, full of rattling breathing and things unsaid.

Dan unwound and rewound the cord.

"Just look out for Blair, okay?" Nate compromised. "And Serena. I'll be there as soon as pos– " He didn't even try to disguise the disinclination in his voice. "I'll be there soon. You're right, I doubt he's seriously hurt."

"Yeah," Dan agreed. "See you in Prague. It'll be a regular summer holiday."

Nate chuckled darkly before disconnecting.

The situation, he hoped, would be bearable with Nate around to counteract the fest of Chuck love he would soon be enduring: all the Van der Woodsens had a curious affinity for the creature. Even Serena, though her favour tended to ebb and flow along with Blair's. Then again, Nate was Chuck's best friend. And hadn't Blair's reaction – Blair, who had more reason than himself to despise Chuck's guts until the cows came home, reason even to disembowel him and have said intestines embalmed and buried with her so that the loathing could continue after death – hadn't her reaction just proved that near-death defied disenchantment? He sighed and sank back into his seat, hands linked across his stomach, and wondered, for just one second, if Chuck had orchestrated this whole debacle in order to regain everyone's love. It wasn't so outlandish an idea, he thought. If anyone would, Chuck would. He was so desperate to win back Blair that Dan doubted there was any level to which he wouldn't stoop.

Jenny's image flitted across his mind and anger burned his tongue.

He was certain there wasn't any level Chuck wouldn't stoop to – with or without Blair.

Dan snuck a sideways glance at the petite brunette; she was curled up in a near foetal position, her eyes staring straight ahead. With her black dress and panda eyes, she was already dressed for grieving. Seeing Blair, for whom he held no great affection, in such a state only made him hate Chuck more. Was there no end to the destruction? He was like a nuclear bomb, still causing cancer generations after detonation.

With an ominous cracking sound, he stretched and crossed the aisle to sit beside her.

Neither calling her name nor gently shaking her shoulder elicited a response. He recounted his various conversations and felt like he was talking to Jenny's mannequin. He asked if she wanted anything, a drink, something to eat, debated whether he should wake Serena so they could talk – but nothing. Carefully, Dan threw a blanket over her shoulders. He moved to return to his own seat, but instead found himself settling in beside her.

"He'll be fine," he said, without quite knowing why, and trying not to sound too disappointed. "He's Chuck Bass. Cockroaches are hard to kill."

And Blair laughed. It sounded like breaking glass, but it was a laugh.

Serena woke up to find Blair curled up against Dan's chest while he dozed behind the in-flight magazine, and said, without thinking, "The best friend and the boyfriend. Classy."

"Very," Dan returned, winking blearily, but completely unfazed.

* * *

Three factors combine to determine the severity of a gunshot wound:

**1.** Location of the injury

**2.** Size of the projectile

**3.** Speed of the projectile

* * *

Nate had taken to wearing flannel purely because he never wore flannel and, by doing so, he was symbolising his attempt at metamorphosis and profound self-exploration and shit. It wasn't that he yearned to be the kind of person who actually wore flannel, he simply wanted to be a different person. Only he wasn't quite sure who, because he quite liked being himself.

Or maybe he was reading too deeply into things. Flannel was comfy.

But after Dan called, he stood in the kitchen in his boxers and a flannel shirt and shivered like the kitchen had suddenly transported itself to Siberia. The flannel was not working. He couldn't remember where he had left his clothes and wandered about the dark apartment, banging into things and swearing, louder and louder, feeling around for something unknown.

It took him a while to realise that he was angry – then even longer to realize at whom and why.

Nate sat in the dark in his flannel and fumed. He really needed some new friends.

He was angry at Jenny because:

**A) **she slept with Chuck;

**B)** tried to break up him and Serena, though it was a little flattering that she had gone to such lengths over him;

**C)** moved to Hudson without telling him; finding out through her Facebook status was not cool, and he felt a great rush of empathy towards Blair and the way she handled the whole Serena-Boarding School-Connecticut debacle;

**D)** turned to Chuck instead of him;

**E)** slept with Chuck.

He was angry with Serena because:

**A)** he loved her, but not as he had thought he had, and that was a letdown. For years, he had constructed an elaborate fantasy of them as a pair, only the reality turned out to be quite different;

**B)** She made him question himself.

He was angry with Dan because:

**A) **Serena;

**B)** Jenny – by only default, because he was her brother, and thus he could be hated for Jenny in her absence. Only he didn't hate Jenny, and Dan was a pretty cool guy to bum around with. He wore flannel;

**C)** Vanessa. It wasn't fair on her, the whole Dan/Serena thing, though he supposed it was inevitable, and that also made him angry. What did Dan have that he didn't?

He was angry with Blair because:

**A)** Chuck;

**B)** Always Chuck.

And he was angry, and very, with Chuck because:

**A)** Blair;

**B)** Jenny;

**C)** Vanessa – though that was more of a 'Dude. Uncalled for' than a 'Fuck's sake, man! That's my girl!';

**D)** he had slept with all the girls he had, or wanted to (though he had never actually asked, not exactly wanting to hear the answer, he suspected Chuck and Serena, once upon a drunken haze, had become a little more than friendly). And he had deflowered his girlfriend. And Jenny, though he couldn't quite think of a label for her. She was just ... Jenny. His Jenny;

**E)** he had far too much scotch lying about and not enough vodka;

**F)** he could drink scotch without puking, and that had always made Nate feel slightly inferior, because a tumbler of scotch looked far more impressive than a Heineken;

**G)** he had to get hurt in Prague, which was totally inconvenient and messed up his plans of getting baked with his flannel and a friend or two;

**H)** they were best friends and, as such, existed in a permanent state of amicable mutual repugnance for each other, rather like a couple that's been married for too long;

**I)** Chuck hadn't said goodbye.

Nate's hands connected with something soft and smooth. He slipped his arms into Chuck's robe and felt suddenly warmer. The smell of desolation clung to the fabric like a stubborn blood stain and Nate walked out the penthouse, barefoot, and hailed a cab.

Rufus answered the door. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Rufus nodded grimly. "You heard?"

Nate nodded. "Can I bum a ride?"

* * *

Rufus didn't know what had happened between Blair and Chuck and everyone. Jenny had avoided the question like the plague when he posed it her, and he had not asked again. He wasn't quite sure he wanted to know the answer. Yet he couldn't help feeling, as they settled on the Bass Industries jet, all of them, himself, Lily, Eric and Nate – and the others, waiting in Prague – that he was walking into the belly of the beast without his towel.

And no hoopy frood went anywhere without his towel.

Lily and Nate were talking about Christmas eight years ago, and Rufus drifted over to Eric. He really liked the kid. Eric was rock solid, a calming presence with a good, kind heart. Sensible, too. As much as Rufus wanted a clean slate for Jenny, he felt like the bad cop for splitting them up.

"Hey. That seat taken?"

It wasn't a seat. It was a cream leather sofa curling in a semi-circle, good to seat about fifty people.

Eric looked up, and shook his head. "I think you could just about squeeze in."

Rufus smiled. They sat together in amiable silence, listening to the pilot flirting with the stewardess, waiting for the runway to clear. It was nearing seven AM. He waited until after breakfast, eggs benedict with smoked salmon, broaching the subject as they streaked over the Atlantic. Somehow, he thought the clouds wrapping the plane would provide adequate cover.

Eric did not look surprised when he asked. He thought for a long moment, glancing down at his neat nails, and then said, "How much do you want to know?"

Rufus sat back. Sat forward. And sat back again, sinking into the sofa's plush embrace. How much did he want to know? They say ignorance is bliss, but the last thing he wanted was to come over as insensitive to some major fallout, to say something – completely unintentionally, of course – to Serena, or Dan, or even Blair, and cause undue upset. If Chuck was badly hurt, nerves would already be frazzled.

But how much did he want to know? That was the question.

And what was Eric asking, exactly. Rufus interpreted it two different ways, and, thinking back, he wasn't sure which one he himself had asked. Either Eric inquired how _badly_ did he want to know, to know everything – or how many facts he could arm himself with and get by.

Rufus ran a hand through his hair. "How much do I need to know?"

"Chuck and Blair broke up," Eric started cautiously, with the deliberate air of one carefully choosing his words. This did not do much for Rufus' sanity; he knew Jenny had been involved. "And Dan punched Chuck. And ... And that's all."

"That's all?" Rufus repeated.

Eric nodded tightly. "That's all you want to know."

Rufus shot the teenager a shrewd look. "And what about what I don't want to know?"

"Trust me. You don't want to know it."

"C'mon," he coaxed. "Give me something more here."

Eric sighed, chewing his lip pensively. "Weeeell. Nate and Serena broke up, I think because Serena and Dan are – well, because they're Serena and Dan, really. And ... Blair and Chuck– "

" –broke up, yes," Rufus interrupted.

"And we hate Chuck," Eric finished lamely. "Only, we don't really. He's Chuck."

Ah. Yes. The inevitable Chuck Bass. The boy was still an enigma to Rufus, though; they had never exchanged a word. He had lived with Serena, and with Nate, and was, to say, acquainted with Blair, but Chuck? He knew nothing of Chuck, despite the fact that he was Lily's stepson. And **Rufus** was Lily's husband. Did that make him Chuck's step-step-father?

"And who is Chuck?" he asked. "His name keeps cropping up, but I don't know him at all."

"He's my brother," Eric replied.

* * *

They bring her a glass of water and, for five minutes, she stares at it. The liquid wobbles as the wing dips. She stares, but can't think what else to do. What does one normally do with a glass of water? She can't think.

"It's water," Dan says. "You drink it."

"Oh. Yes. I knew that."

The voice that comes out of her mouth does not sound like her own. A different person is talking. A new person.

"Blair?"

It takes her a while to realise it's her name Serena's calling.

"B," she murmurs, and Blair feels warm arms around her, a head against her shoulder. Serena's voice is damp and rough. "Where are you? Talk to me. B, please. Please."

And Blair thinks. She thinks, _where are you? Talk to me, baby, please. _

_I can't feel you anymore. _

She clings tight to Serena's hand and the hard pinch of bitten nails reminds her that she still exists.


	4. Prague, 3:47PM

**A/N:** okaaaaaay, so was watching the season finale – swear to God, it took me, literally, two hours because I kept having to pause and, like, digest everything. It was fecking hard work, you know, like watching _The Lord of the Rings _Extended Edition. Anyhoo, t'was amazing, which I wasn't expecting because the season itself left a lot to be desired – I'm just going to say Chuck and Jenny had better be back, because they're the best actors and, really, the best characters. Chair IS the show. And Nate IS a manslut, I'm so glad he's finally living up to his potential, though not so sure about the sudden affinty for flannel... And Dan and Serena? WOO-HOO!

**A/N II: **ignoring the fact that Georgina's "pregnant" because I completely believe it's one of her crazy plots – she did say _this baby's going to do some things that make everybody hate her_ and I'm taking that as proof. If you don't like it, well than go fuck a kangaroo

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Gossip Girl WOULD I HAVE SHOT CHUCK? Really ... hmmm. Though a badass scar, now ... I digress. I own nothing but Dr. Finnegan. The sexy beast. Oh, and the lyrics belong to Less Than Jake

**Warning: **3x22 spoilers and extreme creative license regarding season 4 ...

**Beta: **Tatiana. I wrote a song for you: _you are my Tati, my only Tati, you make me happy when my stories are shite _

**Reviews: **are love! And, such, I love_ Taylorr x333_, _ruby_, _Ziah_,_ Effie_, _ilovecujo1993_, _HnM skinnys_, _kpGG_, _ohmyeffinggossipgirl_, _melissa_, _SpyKid18_, _ChairDerenaFan95_, _thegoodgossipgirl_, _ronan03_, _MrsCullen-Bass_, _Chris2035_, _  
_

**

* * *

THE REST OF MY LIFE**

.

_If you won't forgive me the rest of my life  
Let me apologize while I'm still alive  
I know it's hard to face all of my past mistakes  
They're going to kill me for the rest of my life_

"_I promise I will make it up to you. Even if it takes me the rest of my life." _

.

**Chapter Three. Prague, 3:47PM**

_It was a self-preservation thing. The constant drinking, the drugs, the girls. They stopped him thinking – thinking about her. In the long run, no doubt, they would kill him. Liver failure. Cardiac arrest. Maybe one of the girls would take pity on him, stab him while he slept, grab his cash, his watch, and go. He supposed it was a little unorthodox, a little fucking retarded, to chain oneself to such a machine in order to stay alive. Rather like replacing a failing heart with a ticking bomb. But it was the only way he could. If not, he thought of her, and only her, and the only sure outcome of that was death. _To be or not to be_ wasn't the question. He _could not _be without her. The question was did he want to try._

* * *

Dan did all the heavy lifting when they landed at Ruzyne International. He carried Blair's meagre bag (contents: lipstick, tampon, Métro stub, three pairs of panties, a slip, a Yale sweatshirt, one pair Gucci flats, hotel pillow mints and the complimentary shower cap, a French-English dictionary and a yellow polo shirt with a hint of musk and old liquor) and insisted on taking Serena's too (contents: everything Blair forgot; it was funny, how the roles had been reversed, with Serena picking up after the designated picker-upper), he got the coffee in Arrivals and hailed the taxi and somehow, through a mixture of Italian and German and Obama. The man kept saying Obama. "Yes, yes, you America. Obama!"

Dan wasn't quite sure if he was mocking him and said nothing because he and Vanessa had watched a pretty nasty movie about Czech gangsters and he really didn't want Serena to be trafficked as a sex slave. Siblings and parents and socio-economic backgrounds were one thing, but he doubted their relationship would last such. Though he had become rather good at punching people over the last few years.

Mainly Chuck.

Dan looked out the window and tried to think about something else.

He paid the driver an extra ten euro for his umbrella and propped it up over the girls as they struggled across the rain soaked parking lot to the hospital. Prague was a fairytale, but it was one of those dark twisted ones where the alleys were narrow and burrowed, ninety degrees, through the city's belly. Buildings were high and cast huge shadows and everywhere it rained, and the Danube wasn't blue. It was beautiful because, once the rain cleared, Dan knew it would be different.

He had his arm at Serena's back and she had Blair bundled up against her. The lobby was dry and full of warm air and greenery in large blue pots. There was even a water feature, with goldfish.

Dan figured there were two ways of looking at this. Either, they were so totally awesome at caring for people, they had time and money to spare to feed the fish – or the hospital was complete shit and they kept fish because they were the only thing they could keep alive.

"Here. B."

He saw Serena pass Blair a handful of copper coins. "Make a wish."

There was a tinny clatter the coins tumbled from Blair's slack fingers on to the sparkling floor.

Dan stopped a rogue five cent with his foot, stooping. He turned it over in his hands. There was a harp on the back. He slipped it into his pocket for a rainy day and joined the girls.

"We've got to find the doctor," Serena muttered, her mouth a hard line. She suddenly looked like Lily. Like a mother. She held tight to Blair, and Dan held her, just in case. Together, they steered Blair away. Her soaked hotel slippers make squelching noises as they shuffled, a three-man unit, over to the long reception desk.

The lobby was busy, but not imposing, with the low mutter of Czech wafting like a strange smell up Fifth Avenue. People sat, mostly alone, holding cups of coffee or teddy bears or their heads in their hands, but no one was bleeding or missing arms. It wasn't ER, more a waiting room, and there was church quiet hovering.

Blair stared around her and felt the hopelessness seep in through her skin like cold water. These people waiting, they weren't new fathers or jubilant grandmothers. These were the relatives who couldn't bring themselves to go upstairs and watch. The elevator pinged and a girl stepped out. Oxygen tubes trailed from her nose and she wheeled an IV stand. It clicked and jingled over every dip between the tiles, each time reinforcing the reality of the situation. Blair watched her grimaced and lower her frail little being down onto the ledge of the water feature. Her head was completely bare. She was Blair's age. She had the rest of her life ahead of her.

"Can I?" Blair asked, finding herself standing beside the girl.

The girl looked up. Her eyes were rheumy and yellow. She nodded and smiled and Blair felt something inside crumble a little.

"How do you do it?" she asked, gazing down into the pool's dark depths, the quick streaks of gold. Goldfish had a three second memory and Blair had a sudden carving to throw off her clothes and swim in the fountain with the fish.

"Do what?"

"Smile."

"It easy," said the girl in confident English. She smiled at Blair. "You just do it."

Blair tried. "I'm sorry," she blurted. She gestured at the IV.

"I forgive you."

A soft hand squeezed Blair's shoulder.

"C'mon, B," Serena whispered. "It'll be okay." She added it like an afterthought and Dan turned back to the fountain, almost spur of the moment, and flipped in the five cent. Just in case.

* * *

You don't lose your virginity.

Losing is something one does with car keys or bus money or children in the supermarket. Jenny had been such a child once. But she hadn't been _felt_ lost. She had started up a conversation with the lady giving out free samples of chocolate Oreos and had been very content, actually, with an Oreo in both hands. Then her mother came running with red eyes and dived at her, holding her so tight Jenny thought they might actually become one person. That was the first time she had seen her mother cry.

"Oh my God, baby," she gasped, her voice all thin and keening and wet. She held Jenny and kissed her hard and stroked her hair and her cheeks, all of her, as if she had forgotten. "My baby. I thought I'd lost you."

Jenny was confused. "But mommy," she said. "I was right here."

Losing implies something that can be found.

People say _I lost my mother_ and the correct reply is _oh, shit man, that sucks ass. I'm sorry. Can I help? _But they're not offering help to search for the missing woman, under the bed, behind rocks, in cheap hotel rooms. She hasn't left, she hasn't been misplaced, she's dead. She's gone. She's not coming back, not ever, and you can't go and find her.

Jenny thinks that's a better phrase. You don't lose your virginity. You kill it. You kill it dead, that last little scrap of innocence.

She killed it but she wanted to give it away. To wrap it up and lay it in his warm hands, like the most precious pearl. This is me. It's not my heart, it won't go on, it can't be transplanted or stitched back together when it breaks. This is me and this is it and I want you to have it. I love you enough to give you this eternal piece of me. Be careful because you can't give it back. Be careful because I can't have it back. Be careful with me.

Jenny pulled her jumper down over her hands and picked her toast from the toaster. Then she realised there was no black cherry jam. She dumped the toast in the trash and when Alex asked her why, she shrugged and said she wasn't hungry.

* * *

_Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,  
Enwrought with golden and silver light,  
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  
Of night and light and the half-light,  
I would spread the cloths under your feet:  
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams._

William Butler Yeats.

* * *

Money won't buy you happiness_, that's what they said. They looked at him and shook their heads, but inside he was laughing because clearly they weren't calling the same escort company as he was. _Money won't buy you happiness.

_Load of fucking bullshit._

_Money buys girls, money buys drink and coke and limos and good times with no string. It pays for bail and for pizza and clothes and hotels and planes tickets for Carter fucking Baizen. Money means security. Money means power. Money means not having to take the subway or wait in lines – unless one should feel so inclined as to experience how the other half live._

Money won't buy you happiness_, they said, them old people, and he hadn't believed them._

_He saw a busker singing to a rose seller. There was, maybe, the equivalent of twenty dollars, a meagre scattering across his guitar case. Her boots were scuffed, her long coat patched and frayed. But they were happy._

_Chuck gave them each three hundred dollars. He bought them happiness. Or, he bought himself time._

_A frazzled mother dragging her toddler away from an ice-cream vendor. Money for her. Happiness for her. "Take it," he insisted. "Please, god, just take it!" Money for the couple holding hands over the little table outside the café. "Buy her a ring," Chuck told him. "Keep her."_

_The man looked at him like he was a crazy drunk American._

_He stood up, put his hand on Chuck's shoulder. "_Hé, ça va?"

_Hey, man, are you okay?_

_Chuck clung to his hands. "Buy her a ring. Keep her. You've got to keep her. I couldn't. I couldn't make her happy. I couldn't."_

"Je ne veux pas votre argent, monsieur._"_

I don't want your money, sir.

_Chuck didn't understand._

"Mais c'est de l'argent._"_

But it's money.

"Monsieur. Je ne veux pas. Je n'en ai pas besoin._"_

Sir. I don't want it. I don't need it.

_He folded the bills back into Chuck's shaking hands, covering them with his own. Patting Chuck on the wrist, he looked at him with big, brown eyes._

"_But it's money," Chuck whispered. "It's money, Blair. It's all I have to give."_

_The man shook his head, smiling, sadly._

_Chuck realised that all the best things, the best things he ever had, the things he couldn't live without – Nate. Serena. Eric. Lily – none of them came from money. Nate wasn't his friend because he had a limo or Armani boxers. Eric didn't accept him into the family because he had a burlesque club. Serena didn't turn to him when the shit hit the fan because he was Bart Bass's son, but because he was Chuck._

_Her friend?_

_Blair didn't love him because he was rich. She was rich. They were all fucking rich – sure, maybe he was richer, but what the fucking fuck did that matter. When you're dead you can't get any deader._

_But that was then and this is now. Year fucking Zero. Total civilisation meltdown. Start again with sticks and stones._

"_Take it," Chuck hissed. "Take it from me. I don't want it."_

_He spun away from the man, his hands swinging, empty, completely empty, at his sides. A pigeon perched on a nearby trashcan. "I DON'T WANT IT," Chuck screamed at the bird. "I DON'T WANT IT!"_

_He covered his head, his hands cradling his skull, palms on top, pushing him down into a crouch._

"_I want her," he told the cobble stones. "I want her."_

_The cobbles said nothing because they were inanimate objects and he wasn't drunk enough to imagine talking roads._

_There was a hand on his shoulder. He curled tighter._

"Mon, ami._" He blinked and saw money. "Take it," said the man. "Buy her ring. Get her back."_

_Chuck said his head. "_Elle est partie_," he said morosely. "_Elle est partie_."_

_Saying it in French didn't make it any less real. The man nodded and left the money by his foot. Chuck threw it in the trashcan. The pigeon cooed._

"_She's gone," Chuck said__ and the bird flew away._

_For the first time in his life, Chuck Bass felt poor._

* * *

Dan and Serena approached the desk, leaving Blair languishing by the pond. They stopped short. Serena had frozen. She turned to Dan, chewing her lip.

"Blair would be destroyed," she whispered.

Dan sighed. He folded his arms. "And what about you, Serena? How would _you_ be?"

Serena shrugged. "I don't know. It's all too much. First my mom, and then Chuck. And Chuck is– "

"A jerk?"

"But he's always there, Dan. When I needed him, he was there."

"So was I," Dan pointed out, a moment of blatant self-propagation. Serena pulled on his hand. She clasped it in his, stroking his thumb with hers.

"I know."

"So let's do this," Dan urged. He didn't want to admit him, but concern was building up inside him, and he urgently wanted to dispel it. "The worst they can do is say he's– "

"Don't say it!" Serena snapped. She looked at him with wet eyes. "Don't."

"Sorry."

"Let's just go."

"Okay."

The woman spoke no English and had to call on one of her colleagues, and so they waited, together.

"America?" the new woman demanded, thin eyebrows raised her above her pale eyes. She was chewing gum. "Yes? You Americas?"

They nodded, together. "Yeah," Dan said, "we're, um, here for Chuck – Charles Bass. Charles Bass."

"Yes, yes. I say American. You relationed?"

"I'm his sister."

"Yes. Okay." The taps of the keyboard sounded like bullets. "Yes. I page Dr. Finngean, he come talk with you Americas. Room 1812 of ward of the St. Jude."

Dan blinked. "So he's alive?"

The woman rolled her eyes and muttered something clearly insulting in Czech.

_

* * *

He can't sleep. He drank till he passed out, but it wasn't sleeping, and now he lived in a halfway world. He didn't sleep because he dreamt about her and he couldn't bear it. _

_In his dreams, she comes to him. The light in his black hole. She takes the drink from his hand, sets it on the coffee table. Clink of glass on glass. She is wearing his shirt. Her feet are bare. Her toenails, red for desire. For love. _

_For _STOP!

_For blood, heart blood, full of haemoglobin and oxygen. His blood must be black now, because he can't breathe without her._

_In his dreams, she catches his chin with her perfect finger and tilts his face to the light. She glows, like an angel. She is his guardian angel. He wonders if he's dead. Sometimes, he hopes._

_She trails her hands over his face. Pushes back his hair. Cups his chin. Traces along his jaw. Her thumb smoothes over the bruise darkening his eye. Proof of his transgressions. She licks her finger and wipes the dirt away._

"_Good as new," she says._

* * *

I'm here without you baby  
But you're still on my lonely mind  
I'm think about you baby  
And I dream about you all the time  
I'm here without you baby  
But you're still with me in my dreams  
And tonight girl, it's only you and me

Three Doors Down. 'Here Without You'

_

* * *

In his dreams, he rises, for her, but she pushes him back down. Tiny hands on his chest. She could bend him into any shape._

_He says her name. He says, "Blair."_

_She presses a finger to his lips. He kisses it. Licks it. Tastes her. Sometimes she giggles, sometimes frowns, slaps him, sometimes rolls her eyes. Then she slips a hand behind her back and produces a box._

"_You dropped this."_

_And then he wakes up and it's all the worse because she's not there. He can't wake up without her, so he doesn't sleep. It's Tuesday, now, he thinks. He can't remember. He hasn't slept in six days._

* * *

After he talked them through it, Dr. Finnegan offered them a cup of tea. He had met them in the lobby, brought them upstairs. "Get yourselves in," he said, holding open his office door. To their left, a corridor stretched, clean and white with red words on the frosted glass doors, _ICU_. They filed inside, seating themselves in the comfy-looking chairs and Dan remembered thinking was this comfy comfy chair there to distract you from the bad news, cushion to blow, so to say. But whatever the ulterior motive, it's a tasty burger.

Dr. Finnegan leant across the desk now, clapped his hands, said, "Sure will you have a cuppa cha?"

Dan blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"D'you want. A cup. Of tea?"

The office was well-sized, the furniture sleek and dark and a white Apple hummed cheerfully on the desk. There was a bookcase full of books, some in English, some in Czech and one that looked suspiciously like _Harry Potter_, smuggled down in a corner. The typical vanity wall hung behind the desk, though there were more photographs than certificates, all of men in uniform grinning in sunny places, clearly neither Ireland nor the Czech Republic, and on a small sideboard stood a fine crystal decanter, filled with amber liquid – and a battered tartan tin and an old kettle.

He picked up the kettle.

Dan shook his head, momentarily mute. Was this man actually offering him a cup of tea? Like, now?

Irish people were very odd. He looked over at Serena, and she appeared to be thinking the same thing. Blair's face was completely blank. Huddled up inside Dan's jacket, Serena had her arms around her, rubbing her shoulders, kissing the top of her head, murmuring nice things.

"Tea? Yes? No?"

Dan shook his head, a little more emphatically. "Er. No. Thanks."

"Ah you will."

"Em. Yeah, no."

"Ah, go on."

Dan just stared.

"Go on, go on, go on, go on." And he distributed four teabags between a set of seriously mismatched mugs. Through some feat, Dr. Finnegan carried the four mugs over the desk and set one before each of them, along with a carton of milk and some sachets of sugar, clearly liberated from the hospital cafeteria. Dan made up the drinks for himself and Serena, who was busy with Blair's. He took a sip and, somehow, as the hot, smooth liquid settled in his stomach, he felt a little better.

"Thanks," he said, between gulps, not caring that he burnt his tongue. "For the tea."

"Don't mention it," grinned the doctor. He offered out the tartan tin. It was full of biscuits, the likes of which Dan had never seen, like the lovechild of a digestive biscuit and an oatmeal cookie. "Hobnob?"

More for something to do, than actually wanting one, he took one. Serena took five. "What?" She glared at him and he quickly adjusted his eyebrows. "I'm hungry."

Dan realised he was too, and took a handful.

"Take a sup," Dr. Finnegan was telling Blair. "You'll feel better. Promise you. 'Tis the fierce stuff, like."

"Do it, B," Serena encouraged. "It's really great. Here, look, just hold it. Your hands are like ice." And she, carefully, wrapped Blair's hands around the steaming mug. "See?"

But Blair did not see.

"I want to see him," she said. "Where is he?"

And suddenly Dan felt very guilty about his Hobnobs. He had leaped upon the distraction, anything to dissuade from reality, and, mimicking his own crestfallen face, a large chunk of the now sodden biscuit fell with a dejected plop into the tea.

* * *

He doesn't look like Chuck. He looks like someone new, or someone old. Someone much younger, or perhaps this is what nineteen-year-olds are supposed to look like. Dan wraps his arms around Serena from behind, holding her up. The doctor hovers by the door, not wanting to intrude. Blair runs her hands over his face. Her mouth twists, constantly, from a smile to the quiver of threatening tears to a thin line as she sews herself shut, and back to a smile as she winds her fingers in his hair. It's still damp. It smells of shampoo and disinfectant. Dan, too, feels like he's witnessing something very private. Intimate. Indecent. Serena turns into him. Her head fits in under his chin and she sobs against his chest.

Blair reaches down and slips off her shoes and climbs in beside him. No one tells her she can't. No one has the heart to.

_

* * *

Oh I am what I am  
I do what I want  
But I can't hide_

_And I won't go, I won't sleep, I can't breathe  
Until you're resting here with me  
And I won't leave, I can't hide, I cannot be  
Until you're resting here with me_

Dido. 'Here With Me'


End file.
